Fool me once
by Airgead
Summary: Set just after ep 1.1, Richard is struggling to come to terms with being stuck in Paradise, and he is determined he is not going to be played as a fool again...Disclaimer - I don't own the characters, BBC and Red Planet Pictures does.
1. Chapter 1

He can't believe it. He just can't believe it. This week is now officially the worst week of his life. It is worse than his first tearful week at boarding school, worse than the hideous week that he suffered with chicken-pox when he was five, worse than the brutal week at Hendon Police College doing the entry-level PT course (he never wants to wear a tracksuit, ever again) as an aspiring constable, even worse than the terrible week in which his grandparents' dog Laddie had been run over and killed by a milk van. The slings and arrows which outrageous fortune has previously hurled his way are merely minor inconveniences, however, when compared with this, the bombshell to end all bombshells. He is stuck. _Here_. On a hateful tropical island, full of sunshine and sand and tourists and blood-sucking bitey things and to top it all off, the French! He is marooned, thousands of miles from home, and all because once more someone has played a nasty trick on him.

Not even the extremely belated arrival of his wheelie bag, finally liberated from the confines of Heathrow's Lost Luggage store, is enough to mollify him. The contents of the bag are of next to no use to him in this infernal climate, he now realises, but it seems he is stuck with them. _Here._ So he has wrestled and dragged and kicked and shoved the bloody thing along the beach to the decrepit hut the local constabulary deems to be suitable accommodations for "foreign officers"_ (how can I be a foreign officer_, he thinks irritably, _when I'm a British national in a Commonwealth nation?)._ Personally, he is certain that the shack ought to be condemned – _who ever saw an architecturally sound domestic structure with an actual, live, tree growing through the sitting room and out of the roof?_ _And surely it must be breaking about six different zoning regulations, to have it so close to a beach. They'd never stand for it in Croydon!_

Too hot and agitated to think straight at the intolerable situation in which he now finds himself, DI Richard Poole, apparently now _formerly_ of the London Metropolitan Police, decides to take a shower, hoping beyond hope to cool off, and wash this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day away (he had once seen a small boy on the Tube, clutching a book with a similar title, and had been torn between wanting to berate the mother for giving her child such depressing reading material, and telling the child that it was best to be making an early acquaintance with the idea that the world was, in fact, exactly as the book's title suggested, so as to avoid disappointment in later life) With a final glare at his wheelie bag - _those wheels may never roll again after the off-road workout I've just given them_, _I wonder if the lifetime warranty covers sand damage?_ Richard heaves it up onto the splintery wooden veranda – _it's a miracle the floorboards haven't been completely eaten away by white ants the size of obese beagles_ – and stops dead, staring inside what is apparently now his long-term residence in amazement.

Charlie Hulme's rather squalid bachelor arrangements had offended each and every one of Richard's fastidious senses, and it had been all he could do to keep his obsessive cleaning streak under control and focus instead on the case at hand. It had been a battle, though, and in the end he had compromised by tackling the worst of the mess (the used condoms under the bed had sent him dry-retching out to the veranda, before arming himself with elbow-length rubber gauntlets and a very long stick) and telling himself unconvincingly that the rest of it really didn't matter, as before long he would be back home, back in the land of double-glazing, fitted carpets, and radiators ticking soothingly through the night. Back in the land of supermarket aisles filled with cleaning products in five different fragrances, of salt-activated water softeners and yes, of power showers. Oh, how he missed his lovely push-button power shower, now that he was faced with a shower that he practically had to run around beneath in order to get wet at all. Having had a bloody great key shoved inside the ancient, rusty shower rose (_thank you, Lily, _he thinks irritably) had not helped matters much, but even with this impediment removed, the water flow and pressure left much to be desired. He rubs a hand over his face, and looks again, still disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes.

This morning, the little open plan dwelling had looked like a tidier version of Charlie Hulme's place; now, it looked like a photo out of '_Caribbean Home_ _Beautiful'_, or whatever the local equivalent was. Every window-pane shone, the gritty, sandy floors have been swept and mopped, the dingy bathroom gleams, and the grease and dirt-encrusted kitchen which had made his skin crawl was now hygienically clean. The little bed was made up with fresh white sheets, and a set of fluffy white towels hang neatly on the foot-rail. Richard steps inside as if he was walking into Alice's Wonderland, breathing in the fresh fragrance of lemon furniture polish with a tiny, crooked smile which grows as he surveys his new domain. Gone were Hulme's obnoxious tropical shirts, cargo shorts and (Richard shudders) flip-flops; all Charlie's personal effects had been removed, and in their place was light, space and a sense of order that had hitherto been sadly lacking. Even the tree in the middle of the living area (_parlour,_ his mother would have corrected him) no longer offended his sensibilities. _Actually,_ he muses, taking in his transformed abode, _the tree gives the room a certain _je nais se quoi_…French?! Why am I using French? I meant, it gives the room a certain air of eccentric style… _

Richard steps into the kitchen galley, where a large hamper sits, tied with a bright yellow ribbon. There is a note attached to the hamper's lid. He opens it and reads, '_With Compliments, S. Patterson, Commissioner, Royal Saint-Marie Constabulary – now look in the refrigerator_'. Puzzled, Richard reaches across and opens the fridge door, to find it stocked with bottles of water, beer, and even, to his astonishment, a small carton of fresh milk. Turning back to the hamper, he unties the ribbon, grimacing at the garish colour. First he unpacks fruit - a pineapple which he spikes his finger on (with much swearing), a hand of the local small sugar bananas, three mangoes _(euggh!),_ and a large orange papaya which turns his stomach with its sickish odour, but then his smile widens as he sees a tin of English Breakfast tea, a couple of packets of biscuits (_French, but better than nothing_, he notes), several cans of baked beans, a crisp, fresh baguette (_oh, what I wouldn't give for a half-loaf of Hovis white sliced,_ he thinks wistfully), a jar of honey, and a pot of something French and dark brown in colour. Peering at the label, Richard finally deciphers it. _Chocolate spread. Seriously, they put chocolate on bread here? Well, that certainly explains a lot! _He turns back to the fridge and peers back inside, this time noticing it has also been stocked with butter, cheese, sliced ham, and eggs. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make him feel welcome, and he very much doubts it is the Commissioner.

He does not like the thought of being made to feel welcome; the last person on the island that seemed to be friendly with him had turned out to be a stone-cold killer. _Lily_. His shoulders tense reflexively as a particular memory surfaces. He pushes it away and heads into his now spotless bathroom for a shower, trying to distract himself with activity from the thoughts tumbling through his head. It's no good, though, and by the time he has bathed, put on his pyjamas (newly arrived from Heathrow), unpacked the rest of his belongings and made himself baked beans on baguette (_no Hovis,_ he sighs again), he is feeling very uneasy indeed about the whole Lily thing. He is ashamed that he allowed his personal feelings to get in the way of the murder investigation, and that he has shown such poor judgement in doing so. Richard, suddenly severed from everything familiar and struggling to make sense of a strange place, had initially thought that the Sergeant was simply being helpful as she was duty-bound to be. He had been so busy with the details of the case at first, that he had forgotten to step back and look at the big picture. _Of course, if the Commissioner had seen fit to share with me that little snippet about an undercover investigator working the same case, with the aim of unmasking a corrupt local police officer – I mean, it was never going to be me, was it?! I think he actually enjoys holding back crucial pieces of information…if he were anyone else, I'd have done him for obstruction of justice, or interference, or just for being a manipulative old bastard…_

Richard scrubs his hands over his face in frustration, and gets up for a beer. Returning to his chair, he frowns to see the small green lizard perched on the armrest, head cocked, watching him warily_. I should have been more like that lizard, _he tells himself angrily_. Watchful, alert, cold-blooded. Instead, I let my guard down, and Lily strolled right in to confuse and misdirect me. I made it easy for her, too, because I wanted to believe that she might actually be interested in me. Catch me doing that again! _Richard shoos the reptile away with a flick of his hand, before resuming his seat and his sulk. _I'm not sulking, I'm self-assessing…_closing his eyes, he revisits different moments in his memory, moments in which he is interacting with Sergeant Thompson. The pit of his stomach drops as he realises just how skilfully the woman had played him, almost from the very beginning…


	2. Chapter 2

In his memory, Richard once more sees Sergeant Thompson, standing next to the Commissioner, waiting to meet him at the airport, muttering something his normally excellent hearing couldn't quite catch, before giving him a small, polite smile. He recalls the practised way in which she had swung into the drivers' seat of the horrendous old police Land Rover and then managed to avoid most of the ruts and potholes as she took them back to the station, and her tone of voice when he had raised the issue of the island's inhospitable climate with her (_'well, take off your jacket, then' she had drawled, with a look of exasperation at having to explain this to yet another Englishman shipped in to lord it over her_). He puzzles anew at Lily's sudden kindness and consideration in offering to take him to his quarters first to freshen up, just at the point that he was certain he was about to expire from the heat beating down on him through the window of the old, un-air conditioned vehicle. And then there's the way in which she had upped the ante by telling him that his deceased predecessor, Charlie Hulme, had not been a typical Englishman, but had been charismatic, thereby triggering not only Richard's personal insecurities and uncertainties, but his male competitive instinct to somehow outdo his _(_admittedly dead) rival. Yes, she had read him, all right, and then proceeded to employ her feminine intuition to influence and control him until he had been pointing this way and that at her whim. He blushes at the thought of it. _Such a stupid, ridiculous, rookie's mistake._

Richard had to admit, he had been thoroughly taken in by her on the professional front, too. She had been so damn helpful when they were going over the crime scene in the panic room at Lord Lavender's palatial residence; seemingly so eager to learn from him ('_what's that?'_ she had curiously asked, spotting his laser distance finder) and willing to accommodate his demands. Not that he thought they were demands, rather he felt that they were eminently reasonable requests. Recall the evidence from another island, where it had inexplicably been consigned; take statements; assist him at the crime scene; drive her senior officer about. It was all in a day's work for any Sergeant of police, and she had done everything he had asked without complaining; but if Richard had been paying more attention to her, he would have noticed the little eye-rolls, head-tosses and sarcastic vocal inflections which accompanied her acceptance of whatever order or instruction he had given her. His father would have called it dumb insolence, and what's more, Richard decides glumly, dear old Dad would have been right. Lily had been almost unable to mask her contempt for him at times, but he had missed most of it, so caught up in misery at finding himself in his own personal version of Hell-on-Earth had he been.

He does recall one moment though, when she had replied to his innocent enquiry of "How do you get anything done on this island?" with a distinctly snarky-sounding, "Beats me how we get out of bed in the morning," a pronouncement delivered in such a loaded tone of voice that he had turned to look at her warningly. In hindsight, he wonders how he could just have overlooked it – normally he is a stickler for propriety and insisting on the respect due to his rank, if not to himself personally. Lily had gotten away with it, he feels, because most of the time she had managed to look and sound professional. It still makes him sick, though, when he considers that he had followed her around for days without realising he was in the company of a scheming, amoral murderess. His professional pride had taken a battering over that, but when compared with the damage Lily had inflicted on his personal pride, this pales into insignificance. More unwanted memories surface, and this time Richard gives into them, wallowing in self-loathing and disappointment. _I need another beer…_

He should have known something was up when she started to ask him about his life in London, as they had strolled along the beach a few days ago. In Richard's experience, women do not fall over themselves to make his acquaintance, much less make personal enquiries about his life. If he had been at home, he's sure he would have seen the set-up coming from a mile off; people who live packed into the controlled chaos that is London don't waste their time making small talk or polite conversation with strangers, and more than most, Richard is adept at keeping others at arm's length. For the most part, it is simply lack of interest on his part – most people, he has observed, are boringly predictable, and he has long since learned that their interests are limited to a few well-worn topics: their partners (or lack of), their children (or lack of), their dislike for whatever it is that they do for a living and who they do it with, where they are going (or have been) on holiday – Richard just can't find it in himself to care about any of it, and he doesn't mind who knows it, either. He has sometimes heard people whispering behind his back, "Asperger's, you know," and hasn't bothered to correct them. Why should he care what others say about him, when he holds most of them in contempt to begin with? He might love living in London, but he certainly doesn't love his fellow citizens. Mostly, Richard Just Wants To Be Left Alone…and so he is. People go out of their way to avoid him, and that's exactly how he likes it.

Yes, if only he had been at home, she would never have gotten under his guard. But here, where nothing is familiar, with the stress of a murder investigation pressing upon him almost as oppressively as the insidious heat and ever-present humidity, he had actually welcomed her friendly overtures…_What on earth was wrong with me_, he wonders. Richard drains his second bottle of beer, and rolls the still-cool glass bottle across his forehead in a futile bid to gain relief from the muggy evening air…_even when the sun goes down, it's still hotter than Hell…what sort of people would actually WANT to live here, much less pay to visit? _It is all quite beyond his comprehension_._ "Mad as a bag of frogs, the lot of them," he mutters darkly, retrieving yet another beer, before returning to the veranda and continuing his brooding.

Sunk in his self-recriminations, Richard does not notice the moonlight silvering the lagoon before him, nor the blaze of stars hung low across the soft black sky; he fails to see the gently swaying palm fronds as the faintest breeze ruffles them, or hear the myriad sounds of a tropical night: the low thrumming of cicadas, the chirping of crickets, the high-pitched squeaks of fruit bats on the wing, or the distant strains of reggae drifting towards the isolated shack from the other side of the lagoon. Taking a deep breath and huffing it out again in an attempt to ease the tightness in his chest, Richard does not register the scent of night-blooming jasmine, piercingly sweet, nor the softer fragrance of the red frangipani which grows behind the shack. He does not sniff appreciatively at the sea air, nor does he pick up on another, sweeter, heavier smell, like burning grass, which is coming from further down the beach…a smell which he would have recognised and hunted down zealously, if he had come across it in Camden Markets, but which here goes unnoticed, buried amongst the thousands of new sensations and experiences of Saint-Marie, and none of which he wants.

"What's a typical London experience, something that fills you with joy?" he again hears Lily asking, and he knows now that he must have looked at her blankly, from the amused look on her face as she says "Tell me," …and to his complete surprise he did, beguiled by her interest. Richard takes another long swig of his beer and winces in embarrassment as he recalls the cosy scene in the White Hart which he had conjured up for her, and then her innocent-sounding enquiry -"Alone?" He knows now that she had been playing him all along, that she had already shrewdly (and correctly) assessed him as an awkward loner, uncomfortable with the sort of light conversation that seems to come so easily to the rest of the human race – the inconsequential, unimportant banter which makes up the majority of their communications. Richard has never felt at ease discussing his life outside of work, and he fervently wishes now that he had stuck to his lifetime habit of avoiding engaging with people socially. _I'm no good at it anyway, and now look what's happened – I should have just walked away_…

Richard groans aloud as he replays the scene in his mind's eye; that awkward little moment where it dawned on him that, quite unfeasibly, he was alone on a tropical beach with a pretty woman, talking to her… he sees once more Lily's demure smile at his embarrassment and confusion, and then, excruciatingly, his recalls his final words to her that night… "_Good work, you've been fantastic…_" sounding, he realises in hindsight, like a gauche teenager. He may as well as have said, "Cool, laters!" as he has often heard kids on the Tube say, incomprehensibly, into their mobile phones. It's the oldest trick in the book, using feminine wiles to get around a chuckle-headed male, and until now he has prided himself on his invulnerability to such transparent manoeuvres. Richard drains his final beer for the night on that thought, and grimly takes himself to bed, to lie, sleepless, in the sweltering heat, and wonder why he has only ever thought to buy flannel pyjamas.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning isn't much better: Richard is woken at an unfeasibly early hour by a couple of jet-skiers zipping up and down the lagoon, and when he opens the shutters to see what the unholy, high pitched noise is, he is almost blinded by the rising sun, already throwing off a fierce heat. He feels disoriented and desperately homesick, and he is dreading his first day of work with Sergeant Bordey. Glumly, he goes through his morning routine; shower, shave, suit, tea, and toast; baguette, he decides, toasts up quite well, but he still longs for a nice, familiar, perfectly shaped slice of Hovis. He considers trying out the chocolate spread from the welcome hamper (Richard loves chocolate, when it comes in the form of Cadbury's Dairy Milk, or a Terry's Chocolate Orange, at Christmas), but baulks at the last moment, and thinks wistfully of Marmite instead. Perhaps if he asks his mother nicely, she might post a couple of jars…Richard scoffs under his breath at the idea of his mother even remembering such a request, and moodily nibbles at his baguette, brushing off crumbs from his suit in annoyance, wondering why everything French is so _messy…_ English toast would never leave crisp, flaky crumbs everywhere, nor crumble off in chunks that threatened to leave buttery smears on his second-best suit. English toast would be like eating warmed cardboard, granted, but Richard misses it with a longing that surprises him with its nostalgic intensity. _What's wrong with me_, he wonders, _next I'll be sobbing for spotted dick and custard, or toad in the hole…come on Poole, get a grip!_

The tea isn't much better – the leaves themselves seem all right, as far as he can tell, but the island's water supply is soft rainwater, not the chalky, mineral-tasting London water which he is used to, and the milk, while indeed fresh, is from France, and is too…_milky,_ too creamy, and nothing like his usual pint of semi-skimmed from the Sainsbury Local near the Croydon Tube station. After a couple of tentative sips, Richard pulls a face and pours the brew down the sink, followed by the rest of the milk…which is when Sergeant Bordey arrives to collect him for work, rapping sharply on the wall of the shack nearest the open front door, peering inside impatiently.

Richard turns around, startled, as she gasps in horror; he sees her eyebrows shoot up as he tips the milk away, then her hands are on her hips, and her chin takes on a certain jutting quality which tells him she is annoyed…_no, make that furious_, he thinks, as she turns on her heel and strides back to the waiting vehicle. He dusts the last crumbs of baguette from his shirt front, picks up his slightly battered briefcase (a graduation present from his parents), and grits his teeth at the idea of spending ten minutes in a vehicle under the control of a hostile and angry female Sergeant. _Well, and what's it to her,_ _if I think my tea tastes vile,_ he reasons as he marches down the steps, across the sand of his non-existent front garden (sand, everywhere – what sort of a place _is_ this?), and hoists himself into the passenger seat of the old Land Rover, staring fixedly out of the smeared and bug-encrusted windshield. _I'll have to get Fidel onto that,_ he reminds himself, _it's disgusting, as well as dangerous. _Lily obviously hadn't made the care and maintenance of official police vehicles a priority…he winces at the thought of her, and from the corner of his eye he sees Sergeant Bordey glance in his direction, then look away again.

They sit in silence for a minute, before Richard realises that the Sergeant has no intention of starting the engine. He wonders what the problem is, but is reluctant to engage with her, as she looks out the driver's side window at the lagoon. He clicks his seatbelt into place; she doesn't move. Finally, he follows this up with "Richard didn't want to die, " referencing a rather effective (or so he thought) UK seatbelt safety advert, aiming to lighten the mood, or at least get her to acknowledge him, then start the vehicle and convey them both to work. She looks at him sideways, and then snaps, "In that case, perhaps _Richard _should have shown some more consideration, instead of throwing the most expensive milk on the island away." He blinks in surprise, before taking umbrage at her familiar use of his Christian name. "It's Inspector Poole to you, Sergeant, and I'll thank you to remember it. And what business is it of yours if I do pour the milk away? It's my milk, and if I want to make cheese from it, bathe in it like Cleopatra, or tip it straight down the sink, I will do so with impunity. Now, can we please proceed to the police station, so I can discover what delights await me today?" He sits back, folds his arms tightly across his chest, and waits.

The Sergeant mutters something in French, jams the key into the ignition, lets out the clutch of the Defender with a jerk, and swings the vehicle around in as tight a circle as possible, before heading up to the main road into town, steering straight for every corrugation and pothole on the way. Richard clutches the grip strap grimly and rides it out. He is not going to be intimidated by an irritated junior officer with a strange obsession about milk; he does not want to have any more to do with her than is strictly necessary; he will not allow himself to be lulled again into a false sense of security._ Not that Sergeant Bordey is interested in lulling me into anything, unless perhaps it's an early grave_, he thinks, as she whips through a series of hairpin bends like a rally driver, so that the high vehicle sways sickeningly and he lurches against the door. He shoots her a warning glare – _I'm onto you_ – but she doesn't even notice as they round the last corner and the road straightens out for the final run into Honoré. Sergeant Bordey parks hard and fast in front of the station, swings out of the cab, and stalks inside without so much as acknowledging the sarcastic "Thank-you" that he mutters from between clenched teeth.

Richard gets unsteadily out of the Land Rover and leans up against the fender, clutching his briefcase in front of him like a little boy holding his schoolbag, eyes closed against the sunshine, as he musters the courage to follow her inside. For a moment, he actually finds himself wishing for Lily. At least she had pretended to tolerate him; Sergeant Bordey is making it painfully obvious that she isn't even going to try to pretend. He sighs, feeling tension and annoyance settling in his shoulders, and wonders whether the Commissioner would notice if he just didn't show up today…but where would he go, and what would he do? Nowhere, and nothing, unless he made a break for the airport. For a moment, Richard entertains the idea of just running away, as he had so often dreamt of doing as an unhappy boy, and then he scornfully tells himself _get over it, Poole, just get in there and get the job done, _as he has so often said to himself as he approached the staff entrance of the station he had been assigned to in London, and he pushes off from the fender and stumps up the uneven steps to the front door.

_Only twelve hours to go_, he reminds himself, as he enters the main office area to see Dwayne sitting with his feet on the desk, uniform shirt half unbuttoned to allow the breeze from the desk fan to blow soothingly on him, Fidel, on the phone and speaking in the island's Creole patois, who nods an acknowledgement as he sees his new boss arrive, and his Sergeant, sitting ramrod straight at Lily's old desk, industriously, if noisily, sorting through her predecessor's IN and OUT trays, uttering exclamations and imprecations (all in French, of course) as she takes stock. Richard sets his shoulders and walks straight past her to his own desk at the back of the office, and sits down to read through the SOCO reports for the Hulme/Lavender murders. Even though the case has been solved, the paperwork is only just beginning – Lily had not bothered, for obvious reasons, to keep up with the reams of forms and reports that a homicide case generates, even in a backwater like Saint-Marie, and now he and Sergeant Bordey have their work cut out for them. He flicks a glance in the direction of her desk; she is busily punching holes in papers with just a little too much enthusiasm, then threading them neatly into lever arch files, closing the binder mechanisms with a sharp metallic click. He can't help but feel that each _crunch! _of the hole-punch, each _snick! _of the metal rings as they snap shut, each _slam! _of the desk drawers as she methodically goes through them and removes everything of Lily's – photos, keys, a USB drive, even a swimming costume, stuffed into the bottom drawer – and drops them into evidence bags with gloved hands – is somehow directed at him, and he finds it unnerving.

Richard has worked all his life with people who disliked him at best, and outright loathed him at worst, and his usual coping mechanism has been to simply not care; he doesn't know why his tried and true method seems to be failing him now, but he feels very disconcerted. _A nice cup of tea is what I need…but where to find one on this miserable speck of rock in the middle of the Caribbean?_ Richard's eye falls on an out-dated copy of the local Yellow Pages, and an idea sparks at the back of his mind. He surreptitiously opens the book at _H,_ for _Hotels_, and _High Tea_, and begins to peruse the advertisements…


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N - Apologies for the delay in updating, the RW has been keeping me rather more occupied than I care for lately, and my other WiP for Spooks has been taking up most of my downtime. Hope you will enjoy...there is one more chapter to come - Airgead**

At 2.30pm that afternoon, the market-goers of St Honoré are treated to an odd sight: a pale, sweating Englishman, in a heavy woollen suit, attempting to move quickly through the throng of shoppers and stallholders outside the police station. His odd half-trotting, half-loping gait draws smiles of amusement – he looks like a child's pull-along toy being tugged over rough ground – but as they see his anxious expression as he glances frequently at his watch, they wonder what is wrong with him. After all, it's a beautiful day here in Paradise…and doesn't he realise that he's on island time now?

When they see Sergeant Bordey slipping along after him, moving with her usual grace and ease through the crowd, some of the stallholders exchange knowing glances – they have heard, from Catherine, the story of the English policeman who was sent to investigate a colleague's murder and was subsequently detained at the Commissioner's pleasure, and how he blundered into her daughter's undercover investigation. It is common knowledge on the island that the two have been assigned to work together, and no-one is in any doubt as to how Camille feels about it. Catherine has been vocal in her disapprobation of Inspector Poole on her daughter's behalf, indignant that she is being made to work with the man who, in Catherine's view, has ruined Camille's promising career. "Yet another damn Englishman, handed a job he hasn't earned, taking opportunities from us, and the worst of it is, he doesn't even want to be here…it is too insulting!" Catherine's regulars have all been treated to her tirade on the subject recently, and most of them, having either seen or had dealings with the man themselves, are inclined to agree with her. _He doesn't belong_, is the general consensus.

Camille has no trouble shadowing the Inspector; he is so hell-bent on getting to wherever it is that he is going, he never looks behind him once._ He'd be hopeless as an undercover officer_, she thinks, smiling grimly to herself at the idea of her awkward new boss trying to fit in with…well, anyone, really_. He is exactly what he looks like, a pompous, stuffy, uptight Englishman with his head so far up his own_… Camille breaks off this line of thought as she realises that Richard has stopped, at the outdoor lounge of the best hotel on the island, where he now seems to be haranguing the receptionist…she stares in astonishment as he actually waves his police badge in the poor man's face. _What a rude man_, she thinks disparagingly, _doesn't he know the first thing about manners? Here on Sainte-Marie, a little "s'il vous plait" goes a long way… _she watches in disbelief as he is led to a white-clothed table, and sits down – facing away from the lovely view over the lagoon, she notes, rolling her eyes – and proceeds to unfurl a napkin across his lap. _He's still on shift!_ she fumes to herself…_what does he think this is, the return of the British Empire?_

Richard, red in the face after his hurried journey and his altercation with the unhelpful receptionist - _surely everyone knows that High Tea is served from three o'clock to four, and not from two till three_ - settles into a wicker chair beneath a large umbrella, and awaits the arrival of said High Tea with the sort of anticipation he hasn't known in more than thirty years, when Christmases were still eagerly looked forward to and he had believed that the Easter Bunny really did leave chocolate eggs in his grandparents' garden for him to find…of course, he had soon enough grown out of such childish fancies. Boarding school had soon knocked all that out of him, while knocking in a few harsh realities at the same time. Richard shakes his head, dismissing these thoughts – _it was what it was, no point in dwelling on it, Poole – _and sits up a little straighter as a tiered stand of finger sandwiches and little cakes arrives at his table, followed by a florid china tea service painted with tropical flowers and butterflies, of all things. Steam rises from the spout of the tea pot, and Richard inhales the fragrance of freshly brewed tea with a beatific expression, before pouring a cup – _good colour, no stray leaves_ – and adding milk. He raises the cup to his lips, takes a final sniff, and then sips…_oh, yes…yes…no! No, no, no…what?! _

He can't believe it, just can't believe it – sliding into the chair opposite is his new Detective Sergeant, with an arch look on her face as she signals the waiter and orders a flamboyant cocktail, grinning at his discomfiture as she settles in, to all intents and purposes, for an afternoon's drinking_. How the hell did she know where to find me?_ _Tea is one thing,_ Richard thinks disapprovingly, _but strong Caribbean cocktails are quite another…and she's still on shift!_ He tries to upbraid her for her underhandedness in following him, but she quickly points out that he is standing on rather shaky ground, having absented himself from the station, and he subsides reluctantly, staring at his tea in disappointment. He doesn't know what they do to the tea on this island, but he is in despair of ever finding a drinkable cup…or drinkable _anything, _he laments privately, looking in disapproval at the fruit-bedecked, swizzle-sticked, towering concoction that is placed before Camille. Richard glares in disappointment at his very expensive, very awful cup of tea, and once more wishes he had never heard of Sainte-Marie, much less Commissioner Patterson or Camille Bordey, now eyeing the jug of milk on the table before him before smirking at him…_what __**is**__ it with her and milk_, he wonders…

Camille gives Richard a triumphant look as she registers his dissatisfaction with his tea, before enjoying a long sip of her drink, which is everything she had hoped it would be. Just as she does, something white and fluttering plunges into the lagoon, just on the edge of her peripheral vision; she glances back to the Inspector, and realises that he too has seen it, and with the experienced air of a detective who has seen too much not to recognise a human body falling through space, he is already getting to his feet. Camille is surprised to see a certain gleam in her superior's eye – not excitement, exactly, but rather the look of a man who realises he is needed – and she notices how he straightens his back and sets his shoulders as he strides towards the hotel_. He's proud of what he is_, she realises, _and proud of the job he does, even if he doesn't like himself very much…interesting! If only he wasn't such a colossal pain in the backside to work with…he hasn't even waited for me. Doesn't he know how to work with a partner?_

The answer to that question, Camille soon discovers, is a resounding _No_, and her dislike of the Inspector quickly turns to loathing, as he pushes through doors first, cuts her off mid-sentence, and generally behaves without an iota of the respect due to her rank and experience, if not her sex. She puts up with it, until he belittles her in front of the hotel butler, who is assisting them with their enquiries into the death of a young woman, married that day, and shot through the heart with a spear-gun…_Enough is enough_, she decides, and clicks her fingers commandingly…

Richard, deep in his initial enquiries, poring over the plush hotel suite, practically quivering with repressed excitement at being on the scene of what is shaping up to be one of the more interesting cases of his career, barely notices Camille except as a hindrance who keeps trying to interrupt his train of thought. He is determined not to allow her to distract him from this case as Lily so successfully managed to do with the Hulme murder; he will not be taken in again by a beautiful, but deceptive, female. Thinking of Camille in these terms, he finds it easy to be brusque with her, and is taken aback when she snaps her fingers at him…


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Again, apologies for the gap in posting – but here is the final chapter of this story! I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. **

Carrying his briefcase with him, Richard follows his Detective Sergeant across the hall and into an empty hotel suite_. I don't have time for this... I've got to get on with questioning suspects, finding leads, following up the forensics reports…do I have to do __**everything**__ around here? _As soon as the heavy door clunks shut, Camille rounds on him, eyes flashing, finger jabbing into his chest in her fury; and for the next five minutes, Richard has the novel and thoroughly unpleasant experience of being given the mother of all dressing-downs, by none other than his subordinate, younger, French, female officer. _Sister Benedict has nothing on Sergeant Bordey_, he thinks, as she hurls words at him like spears; apparently, he is an ignorant, self-important, rude man, who expects everyone else to follow him around and hang on his every word. His sergeant, on the other hand, is virtually a paragon of policing, who graduated top of her year, has three commendations for bravery (_that's three more than you have, Poole_), has been shot twice, and is confident of her ability to beat him in a fist fight.

Richard hates the very idea of fighting, and whatever else he may or may not have done, he has never in his life raised his hand to a woman. He'd quite like to tell her that, at least, but she won't let him get a word in. As Camille berates him, he finds himself listening less and less, and looking more and more; at her brown eyes, glinting with fury; at the play of muscles beneath her skin as she uses her hands to emphasise her point; at the cloud of dark curls surrounding her piquant face, at her full lips and her slender figure and…"From now on, you treat me with a little more respect, or I'll be forced to forget I'm a police officer. Okay?" Richard drags his attention back to what she's saying, and feeling about fifteen years old again, he nods gormlessly in reply…_why did I not notice how very beautiful she is, before? _ he wonders, as he stands back to allow her to pass through the door first, awkwardly trying to convey his newfound respect for her.

In his heart of hearts, Richard suspects the answer is that he has been so determined not to be taken in again, that he has missed the truth of the situation altogether. Camille Bordey is no Lily Thompson; she is a dedicated, decorated, utterly honest officer, and one who is not afraid of telling him a few home truths, either. She is the sort of Detective Sergeant that any Detective Inspector would be proud to work with; so why are his hands suddenly clammy, his heart racing, and his tie too tight around his neck? _I can't think about that now,_ Richard tells himself sternly, and leaves the hotel room, careful to avoid the sardonic eye of that infuriatingly ever-present butler chap as he crosses the foyer back to the crime scene_. Right, on with the show…now where would the killer get a spear gun, of all things, from?_

For the rest of the day, Richard feels as if he is walking a tightrope; if Camille is right about anything, she is quick to point it out, and if she considers that he is delegating tasks to her which should properly be carried out by a more junior officer, she pointedly reassigns them to Fidel. She seems determined to stick by his side throughout the course of the investigation like a bur on a blanket, and Richard, unaccustomed to working closely with anyone, finds it difficult to adjust. He knows that as a DI, he should be able to lead a team, but he has never been assigned one. At the Met he had sometimes been attached to another officer's team, but they usually found a way to shake him off and into some back-office role; or else he would be given all the dreary backlog of work that no-one else wanted to do, with perhaps a junior constable to assist him until they got themselves promoted, or transferred. He has to admit, there are advantages to working with DS Bordey…she's bright, has local knowledge, and seems prepared to put up with him, although from her comment about beating him in a fist fight, there are limits to how much she is willing to tolerate…and yet, all Richard really wants is to be left alone, to work by himself, the way he has always done.

It's safer that way, not to get close to one's colleagues, or, heaven forbid, _involved _with them. He knows he doesn't understand people, doesn't like being swamped by the morass of tiny details that make up their lives, and which for some unfathomable reason they feel compelled to tell each other about _ad nauseam_…mortgage, kids, partner, dog, cats, in-laws, parents, holidays, illnesses…an endless litany of irrelevant information that he longs to escape from, back into his solitary, perfectly ordered existence. _A lonely, friendless existence,_ the little voice at the back of his head niggles, but Richard _shushes_ it firmly, and reminds himself that people only disappoint and betray him, in the end_._ Far better to live a life apart, and suffer the occasional pangs of longing and loneliness…

Both of which he is feeling, as he sits in the carpark, waiting for Camille to return from her rather impromptu meeting with Stefan, the hotel diving instructor. As she swings into the driver's seat of the Defender, he is perturbed at the little spark of excitement which flares at seeing her again; a spark which he promptly douses, by telling her (and reminding himself) that a woman's mind is a complete mystery to him. She looks at him quizzically, and then, quite unexpectedly, invites him for a drink. He knows he should refuse, he knows he should command her to drive him straight back to his shack on the lagoon, but there is something irresistible about the way she smiles at him, and he finds himself going along with her suggestion with hardly a peep of protest. _After all,_ he reassures himself, _this is what people back at the Met did all the time – go out for a drink after work. This is normal, this is good._ _Oh, this is __**so**__ not what I do_…

Richard looks around the bar suspiciously, and then glances at the tall, elegant woman in a colourful frock and turban, who is pouring him tea. _She's French_, he thinks, _what do they know about tea?_ He says as much to Camille, forgetting that she too is French. The next words he hears make him want to slither through a crack in the floorboards and disappear forever beneath the white coral sand of Sainte-Marie…

"Why did you bring him here?" the older woman asks Camille indignantly, and she replies, "I'm sorry, Maman…" Richard looks from one to the other, brain trying to make sense of what his ears and eyes are telling him, as an awful truth dawns. He has just flagrantly insulted not only an entire race, but the very race that Camille comes from, and her mother, into the bargain. Stuttering some awkward words of apology, he hopes that Madame Bordey is not about to tip the contents of the tea pot she is holding into his lap, or that Camille will not feel the need to challenge him to a fist fight in defence of her mother_. And this, Poole, is why you do not socialise, because you're rubbish at it…_ Hand trembling slightly, he adds milk from the gravy boat in which it has been served, and takes a hasty sip of tea, both because his mouth is suddenly too dry for speech, and in an attempt to placate both women. He is too preoccupied with correcting his _faux pas_ at first to notice, but then it hits his palate like a tannic tidal wave: this is the best cup of tea he has tasted since leaving London…in fact, it's better than many a cup of tea he has drunk _in_ London! His eyes close in bliss, his mouth curves into a beatific smile, and he sips again, unable to believe that anything here could taste so good.

Camille watches him with amusement, chinking her beer bottle against his cup. She notices that he has quite a nice face, really, when he smiles, and as he opens his eyes and looks at her with the expression of one who has been vouchsafed a vision of Heaven, she feels a nervous flutter in her stomach at his clear green gaze. _Hey, careful, he's your boss, and impossible in every way, _she chides herself. _But there's no harm in looking, right…or in asking him to dance? _ Camille can see the amazement with which he is looking at her mother, now swaying to a gentle reggae beat on the dance floor with one of her regular customers, and so she tries to persuade him for a dance. This proves to be a step too far, too fast, and like a snail sensing danger, Richard retreats into his shell, safe behind his cup of tea, only to watch wistfully as she joins her mother, moving gracefully to the music. _She's so beautiful_…

Later that night, as Camille drives him home, Richard is uncharacteristically quiet; he has much to mull over, and not all of it is connected to the case. He feels abashed at getting off on the wrong foot with not only Camille's mother, but the alchemist who can conjure up such delicious-tasting tea; he is ashamed of the way that he has behaved since arriving on the island, as Camille so eloquently pointed out to him earlier, and he is homesick. It is worst at night, perhaps because of the vast mass of stars scattered above, each one millions of miles away from its fellows, shining alone; or perhaps because he misses his dull, cosy Croydon routine. Home on the Tube, pop into the White Hart for a pint in the snug, perhaps duck across the road to pick up a ready meal from Sainsbury's, then back to his small, tidy semi-detached to watch a police procedural drama (scoffing and picking it to bits all the way) or perhaps to work on his latest five thousand piece puzzle, spread across the dining room table which he never uses for any other purpose.

As the Defender trundles to a halt in front of the lagoon, he feels strangely unwilling to get out and go inside, alone. Camille looks across at him, waiting for him to disembark, and in an attempt to delay the inevitable, Richard starts to talk. "That really was an excellent cup of tea your mother made…I wonder how she does it?" Camille regards him wryly, before answering, "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." She sees his eyes widen in shock, until he realises she is joking. He tries another line of enquiry. "I've had tea all over the island, and nothing tasted as good. I just can't quite put my finger on it…" Camille rolls her eyes impatiently, and says, "You're not going to get out until I've told you, is that it? Very well…" and she leans across the gearbox towards Richard, who backs up against the passenger door in alarm as her physical proximity threatens to overwhelm his senses. She sighs, and brings her lips to his ear. She whispers rapidly, then straightens back up, both hands on the steering wheel. "Goodnight, Inspector," she tells him, a demure smile playing around the corners of her mouth, as he clumsily lets himself out, too dazed by what he has just heard to move with his usual dexterity. "Um, er, yes, thank you, Camille, you too," he blurts, and then watches as she turns the big vehicle and heads back up the track to the main road.

Richard makes his way up the stairs and into his gleamingly clean home, shucking his suit, taking a cool shower, and pulling on his pyjamas, before getting a beer – _I need a nightcap after that!_ – and carrying it through to the wicker chair that is fast becoming his favourite, out on the veranda, where the balmy night breeze is rattling the palm fronds and the scent of jasmine and frangipani is sweetest. He takes a deep breath _– I could almost eat this air –_ and sits, beer in hand, watching the wavelets rippling onto the shore, listening to the sounds of the night ebb and flow around him. Up on the ceiling of the veranda, his uninvited reptilian house guest is earning its keep, methodically catching the small flying insects that hover around the light as they land, and Richard raises his beer to the lizard in salute. "You can stay, if this is your usual clean-up rate," he tells it, and it cocks its head as if listening to him. In his head, Richard can still hear Camille's whispered words, and as he replays them over and over, he begins to see the funny side of things. A chuckle escapes him, then a guffaw, and before he knows it, he is lying in the chair, roaring with laughter, as the lizard keeps a wary eye on him.

Finally catching his breath, Richard looks up at his companion and explains, "French…the tea I like so much turns out to be French…it's something called Mariage Frères, all the way from Paris, and Madame Bordey skims the milk herself…and I've been such an idiot…I was so determined not to be fooled again, that I ended up being the biggest fool because I couldn't see what was right in front of me." Camille had explained to him that the little bottle of fresh milk in his fridge had not come from the Commissioner's hamper, but from her mother's own supply for the bar; this was why she had been so offended when he had poured it away, but when she had complained to Catherine of his off-handed treatment of such an expensive item, her mother had simply looked thoughtful, and explained that while the French might prefer creamy milk for their morning café-au-lait, it did not marry well with tea. 'Semi-skimmed, I think they call it…we would need to scald the milk, and skim off the cream first – my grandmother used to do it when we were too sick for rich food, and then give us the skimmed milk. I think still have her scalding pan, somewhere…' Richard is humbled that a complete stranger would go to such lengths to ensure he felt at home, and embarrassed that he promptly repaid Catherine's kindness by insulting her. Camille had added, '_You'll still have to make amends with Maman, but I forgive you. You're only English, after all.'_

He can't believe it, he just can't believe it. This day is now officially the best so far of his stay on Sainte-Marie, and it is all because of Camille_. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me, _he thinks as he finally turns in for the night_, but I was only fooling myself_. _Maybe some people are worth trusting, after all…_ Richard falls asleep to the memory of Camille dancing joyously with her mother, and wishing that he had found the courage to get up and join her…_Next time, _he decides, sinking into unconsciousness, _if there ever is a next time, I think I'll say Yes. _


End file.
